


Don't You (Forget About Me)

by cerie



Category: The Newsroom (US TV)
Genre: F/M, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-27
Updated: 2013-07-27
Packaged: 2017-12-21 12:06:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/900100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cerie/pseuds/cerie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a distraction. It’s a balm that soothes temporarily but in the light of day, he’ll probably just regret it (and her) even more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't You (Forget About Me)

**Author's Note:**

> Set during 2x02 "The Genoa Tip."

MacKenzie knows there’s no place she wants to be more than this, the place where she’s sprawled out in Will’s bed like she belongs there, the place where all the fucked up shit of the last few years just melts away between the smoke and the whiskey, the place where they forget about everything except the two of them.

It’s not entirely fair of her, she knows. He’s brought low by the ratings, by Charlie. He’s lost confidence in himself and it’s all he can do to put one foot in front of the other. This is a distraction. It’s a balm that soothes temporarily but in the light of day, he’ll probably just regret it (and her) even more. 

Still, it’s what she can do. When her words fail, when her choices fail, she has this. She’s always been more comfortable expressing herself physically than anything else and that’s how she ends up pushing her way into Will’s apartment and pressing him against the wall, kissing him deeply before he has a chance to argue it. He tastes like whiskey and smoke, complicated and layered and nuanced in a way he never shows to anyone else because when he does, he inevitably gets burned.

_This_ is the Will she wants on television every night, the one who isn’t afraid to express an opinion and isn’t afraid to be wrong. She wants him bold and quick-witted and full of integrity even if it’s not the popular thing. It’s better to be _right_ than to be popular. She has to make him see that. She has to. Everything they’ve worked for over the last year’s going to be all for naught if she doesn’t. 

“MacKenzie,” he murmurs, barely a break in the kiss. His lips brush against her cheek and his stubble scrapes and she closes her eyes. She hates being dishonest. She wants to make him feel better, certainly, but her motivations aren’t exactly pure and good. She’s absolutely using him even if it’s something that he wants, deep down. 

(She’s taking advantage. She’s willing to live with that.)

His hands are clumsy against her clothes and it takes him a minute to get his bearings. He stumbles over the buttons and just pulls, sending them flying off to scatter across the floor and her shirt sliding off her shoulders. MacKenzie tugs him back to the bedroom and they leave a trail of clothes in their wake, collateral damage for whatever piss-poor choice she’s about to make. 

(This is the most alive she’s felt since before she went to be embedded.)

She pushes him back against the bed and she links her hands in his, pushing them up over his head. She’s always loved a little control, some push and pull, and tonight she’s going to push him until he acknowledges the change that needs to be made. MacKenzie’s just not sure if she’s still thinking of the personal or the professional. 

(She hopes it’s the personal.) 

“Stop thinking, Billy,” she murmurs, rolling her hips against him and grinning with satisfaction when he’s hot and hard and right there. He’s completely fucking blitzed and probably can’t feel his face but right now he doesn’t hate her and it’s almost like old times. MacKenzie’s the queen of bad decisions and poor judgment and this ranks up there with running away to Afghanistan because she fucked up her life.

She releases his hands and they find her hips, guiding her down onto him and holding her there for a moment like he wants to freeze time. There’s never enough time when things are good and sometimes, when it’s bad, there’s too much; MacKenzie’s always hated the clock. His eyes are wide, pupils blown out, and they’re so dark she can barely tell they’re blue in the low light. Everything’s slow and measured. MacKenzie likes to think it’s because they both know this is a fucked-up, one-time offer and they want to stretch it out and make it last. 

(She wishes she could just compress the time between fucking Brian and coming back, press it small so it doesn’t exist.) 

His thumb finds her clit, rubs it in lazy circles while his hips move and MacKenzie’s breath catches. It’s not about her. It’s never really been about _her_ , other than being a selfish way to help him cope, and this changes the game. She didn’t come here expecting tenderness and it catches her off-guard; she’s not entirely what she came here and expected to do but reciprocity never factored into her equation. 

(Will’s always been the most generous man she knows.) 

She’s so wet that there’s barely any friction and his fingers slide against her expertly; even numb and high, Will knows exactly who and what she is. It’s hard to tell where he ends and she begins and Will knows just how to play her to tip her over the edge, just how to drive her insane. He’s not fucking around tonight. Alcohol and pot have made him too honest to tease, too honest to launch barbs at her that he doesn’t mean and instead he’s warm and open and seems to have forgotten her betrayal. 

(MacKenzie wonders if she can’t just keep him this way, keep pressing the advantage.) 

When she starts to come, he rolls them, covering her, and he fucks her hard now in a way he wouldn’t when he’s sober. His hands pin hers down and she’s pretty sure she’s going to feel it in the morning. She likes that. She wants to walk around with a reminder of him and know this was _real_ and she didn’t just imagine it. His mouth finds her neck, trails lower, and when he comes his teeth bite instead of scrape. 

(She’ll wear it like a badge of honor.) 

He pulls away and she’s not sure how to suspend the moment, how to make time stop. He reaches over with one long arm and offers her a hit of a joint and she accepts; it’s a little easier to reconcile what she’s just done if she’s high and everything seems just a bit better through the haze of chemical dependency. 

“I never stopped loving you, Mac.”

( _Fuck._ )

“I know, Billy. I know.”


End file.
